by Tim Waggoner
A metallic skull with organic eyes was mounted on a pole to the left of the gate and it swiveled to look at us. Lazlo rolled his window down and leaned out, but before he could say anything, the skull spoke.
"Damn! You're hideous! No wonder you couldn't wait until morning to see Mr. Baron. But I have to warn you: he may be a genius, but I'm not sure even he's going to be able to pretty up that ugly mug of yours!"
"I'm not the one with the appointment," Lazlo growled. "It's my friend Matt. He's in the back."
The skull sentry turned to face the back window. Devona rolled it down and held me outside so the skull could get a good look at me. The sentry skull's living eyes moved back and forth as it regarded me and I knew there was a living brain encased in that metal cranium. If I'd ever had any doubts that Victor Baron was who and what he claimed to be, they vanished at that moment.
"Just a head, huh?" the skull said. "Believe me, I share your pain."
The gate began to open with a soft hum, and when it had opened wide enough, Lazlo drove slowly through.
The intensity of the power thrum increased the closer we got to the main entrance until I could feel my teeth vibrating. The sensation was merely annoying for me, but when I looked up at Devona, I saw that she was grimacing, jaw clenched tight, lips drawn back to reveal her fangs, which were more prominent than usual, and I knew she was in pain. I heard a low moaning sound then that I first took to be coming from Lazlo, although I'd never known the demon to suffer discomfort of any sort. But I quickly realized the moaning wasn't coming from the front seat; instead, it seemed to be coming from all around us. I understood then that the sounds of distress were emanating not from Lazlo, but rather from his cab.
Lazlo patted the dashboard. "Don't worry, sweetie. It'll be OK."
There was something about the softness in Lazlo's voice that for the first time made me think that maybe the cab was more than simply a vehicle to him and he more than a driver to it. I've become a lot more broad minded since moving to Nekropolis, but even so, the images that went through my mind at the thought of Lazlo and his cab as a couple were more than a little sickening. But lots of people react to Devona and me the same way, so I told myself to be more tolerant.
A light above the entrance flared to blue-white life as we approached a pair of huge iron doors. Lazlo pulled up and the doors started to swing open before he finished parking.
A being cloaked in a hooded brown robe and pushing a wheelchair stepped outside. The being's movements were slow and it lurched from side to side as it walked. One shoulder was higher than the other and the left arm was considerably longer than the right. The flesh of the hands appeared almost bone white in the fluorescent light, and the skin was covered with thick, ugly scars.
The figure opened Devona's door and gestured for her to step out. She did so, carrying me beneath her arm.
"Welcome to the Foundry, Ms. Kanti, Mr. Richter." The voice was a rough whisper and I had to strain to hear it over the loud thrumming issuing from the Foundry. Though it was difficult to tell, I thought it belonged to a man – or at least something that had once been a man. He went on. "I take it the body is still in the cab?"
"I got it," Lazlo said. He left the cab's engine running, walked around to the rear passenger side and retrieved my headless body. He carried it with ease as if it weighed no more than a straw filled scarecrow. He placed my body in the chair gently and the robed man secured it with leather straps around the chest, wrists and ankles. Despite his obvious deformities he performed this operation deftly and within moments my body was ready to travel again.
Devona turned so that I could face Lazlo.
"Thanks for the help," I said.
Lazlo grinned, a sight that would make even the most vicious serial killer wet himself in terror. "You never have to thank me, Matt. You know that. Still, you're welcome."
Just then the cab's hood opened a crack and a mournful wail came out. Lazlo placed his hand on the roof and gently rubbed its surface.
"I'm afraid we can't stay and wait for you," he said. "The sound's getting to her. But we'll stay in the neighborhood and come back to pick you up when you're finished, OK?"
I almost asked Lazlo how he'd know when Devona and I were done – I'd never known him to carry a vox – but there was no point. One way or another Lazlo always knew when I needed a ride.
"Sounds good," I said.
Lazlo gave us a parting wave before climbing back into his cab and roaring away from the main entrance as fast as possible. For an instant I thought he would ram the now closed gate on his way out, but the sentry skull was able to open it in time, if just barely, and Lazlo zoomed off into the darkness, the skull's obscenity-laded shouts of angry protest following him.
The robed man turned to us and for the first time I caught a glimpse of the face hidden within the hood's shadow. Its features were misshapen and twisted, like a wax figure that had melted partway before cooling and becoming solid once more.
"Let's go," he said. "Victor is expecting you."
He gripped the wheelchair's handles and began pushing my body toward the open entrance, walking with that strange lurching gait of his. Devona followed, carrying me, and we entered the lair of Victor Baron.
SIX
Once we were inside the metal doors swung shut of their own accord. Given their size, I expected them to slam closed with a heavy clang, but they made no sound as they shut. What's more, the moment they closed, the power thrum that had been so intense outside disappeared and it became almost eerily quiet.
As if reading my thoughts the brown robed man said, "The Foundry is completely sound-proofed on the inside."
I don't know what I'd expected the interior of the Foundry to be like, but it certainly didn't reflect its gothic-industrial exterior. The floor was covered with clay-colored tile and polished oak paneling covered the walls. Stylish lights hung from the ceiling at regular intervals, providing soft, warm, soothing illumination. Classical music played at a low volume from hidden speakers, completing an effect that Devona later told me was somewhat spoiled by the faint odor of formaldehyde in the air.
The brown robed man pushed my body down a long hallway, moving in a lurching side-to-side motion and Devona had to slow her pace to keep from outdistancing him. The robed man wasn't much for small talk, it seemed, and after a few moments of our walking in silence, Devona tried to draw him out.
"Thank you again for agreeing to see us despite the lateness of hour, Mr.…?"
"You may call me Henry. And think nothing of it. We don't keep regular hours around here. Victor has no need for sleep and his supply of energy is inexhaustible." He let out a snuffling laugh. "A little joke, there. As you might guess, Victor can recharge himself from the Foundry's machines whenever necessary."
As if in response to Henry's words, the hall lights dimmed for a moment before returning to full strength.
"Pay no mind to that," he said. "Happens all the time around here."
It was hard to tell given the state of the man's voice, but I thought I detected a hint of an accent that I couldn't quite place. European, certainly. German or maybe Russian. But such accents are common in Nekropolis given the amount of Darkfolk who had made their home in Europe before the Descension and I thought no more of it.
"Victor would've come to meet you himself, but he's caught up in his latest project. He's something of a workaholic."
Henry's words were spoken plainly enough, but there was a slight edge to them, as if he were making a criticism of his employer that he intended to only partially conceal.
Devona and I exchanged a glance at this, but neither of us responded. Disgruntled employees are the same no matter what dimension you live in.
We passed a series of paintings on the walls depicting various scenes of a castle nestled among forestland with picturesque mountains in the background. The paintings weren't sinister at all. The sky was a gentle blue dotted with white clouds, the grass and trees were painted in mild greens, as if
the sun was shining down brightly upon them.
Henry noticed Devona and I admiring the paintings.
"You like them? They depict Frankenstein Castle and the family's ancestral lands."
"They're beautiful," Devona said with more than a trace of wistfulness. Though her mother had come from Earth, Devona had been born and raised in Nekropolis and had never visited her mother's home. She'd had the chance once, but she'd given it up to remain in Nekropolis with me. She'd assured me that she didn't regret her decision, but at times like these I couldn't help wondering if on some level she wished she'd chosen differently.
"Have you read Mary Shelley's novel?" Henry asked. He went on before either of us could reply. "Some things she got right, other things she got wrong or simply invented." He nodded toward a painting of the castle. "That's the monst– I mean Victor's birthplace."
Devona and I caught his verbal slip of course, but as with his earlier comment, we let it go without remark. Besides, it's not as if monster is a pejorative term in Nekropolis.
The three of us – or four if you count my body on its own – reached the end of the hall. It branched off to the right and left and Henry turned in the latter direction. This hallway resembled a hospital corridor, everything white with bright fluorescent light panels in the ceiling. We passed a number of office doors with name plates on them: DR. X, DR. HEIDEGGER, RAPPACCINI, DR. PRETORIUS, ROSSUM, HERBERT WEST, ROTWANG, DR. GOLDFOOT…
"Victor keeps a number of the city's most prominent scientists on his payroll," Henry said. "He likes to maintain a healthy supply of high quality brains, you know." He chuckled at his own joke, which was good since neither Devona nor I were so inclined.
Henry escorted us deeper into the Foundry and before long we began encountering other employees. Some were merely odd – like the wild-haired, wild-eyed man in a white lab coat who kept telling a pop-eyed hunchback in a black cloak that his name was supposed to be pronounced "Fronk-en-steen," along with the handsome young man with curly black hair wearing a corset, fishnet stockings, 70s glam-rock boots, and far too much make-up.
"A distant family cousin," Henry explained about the latter. "To be honest he's a mediocre scientist, but he's great fun at office parties."
Others were downright bizarre, even for Nekropolis, such as the fly headed man garbed in a stained lab coat who carried a tiny human headed fly perched on his shoulder. The tiny creature kept saying, "Help meeeee!" in a plaintive, high-pitched voice. Henry told us to ignore him.
"The lazy thing's always trying to con someone else into doing his work." He shouted after the departing duo, "You get paid for a full day's work, and we expect a full day's work!"
The fly lifted a foreleg that terminated in a miniature human hand and flipped Henry the bird.
And of course there were the monsters. Frankenstein ones, I mean. What Victor Baron's publicity refers to as the "repurposed dead." Some seemed benign enough, like the slightly silly and bumbling creature carrying a box of lab supplies who, when he attempted to wave hello to us, dropped the box to the floor with a shattering crash.
"That's going to come out of your salary, Herman," Henry said as we passed. "As usual."
Herman just sighed deeply and bent down to clean up his mess.
Other monsters were decidedly more sinister like the shambling mass of arms and legs that didn't appear to have a face and which left a slime trail behind as it traveled or the pack of upside-down human heads that scuttled past on what looked like crab legs growing out of their skulls.
"You know," Devona said thoughtfully, "if Baron isn't able to reattach you to your body…"
"Don't even think it," I said.
"One of Victor's more innovative designs," Henry said. "He's always trying to develop new uses for leftover parts."
Eventually Henry brought us to a set of double doors labeled LABORATORY 17. A sign above the door warned AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
"Victor should be waiting for us inside," Henry said.
There was a hand scanner on the wall and Henry pressed his right palm flat against it. The scanner hummed, a line of reddish light passed over Henry's hand, and a moment later the door swung inward.
"That seems like an easy enough security feature to bypass in a place like this," Devona said. "All someone would have to do is cut off your hand and hold it to the scanner."
I thought the comment sounded a little on the ghoulish side for Devona, but then I remembered where we were. Cutting off body parts was business as usual at the Foundry.
"Wouldn't work," Henry said. "The scanner is designed to check hypermetabolic energy rates on both the atomic and subatomic levels, as well as search for evidence of genetic tampering. Around here, when the sign says 'authorized personnel only,' it means it." He grinned, scarred, leathery lips drawing back to reveal a mouthful of twisted, discolored teeth. "After all, if you want to open a locked door, you need the correct key, right?"
Without waiting for us to respond Henry wheeled my body into the lab and Devona and I followed.
I'd never met Victor Baron before, but I'd seen him around town a few times, and I'd watched a profile of him and his business on Mind's Eye once. "Adonis-like" is one of the descriptions most commonly applied to him and for good reason. Physically Baron appears to be the epitome of human perfection. Mid-thirties, tall, handsome, body trim and fit, hair chestnut-brown, facial features any male model would envy, piercing ice-blue eyes that radiated both high intelligence and emotional depth. His lightly tanned skin was flawless – no signs of scarring or stitching. He wore a white lab coat over a white shirt, both of which were splotched with brownish-red stains, black pants and black shoes. He looked like a male model or perhaps a movie star who'd decided to chuck his career and take up mad science for a living.
As we entered, Baron turned and flashed us a smile so white and perfect it would have made an orthodontist weep with joy.
Baron's laboratory contained a bizarre hodgepodge of technologies which only made sense given that its owner was an amalgamation of parts taken from different bodies. Much of the assembled equipment consisted of hi-tech top-of-the-line imports from Earth – sophisticated computers, medical diagnostic machines and the like – but some of it would've been better suited to a display of antique technology: Van Der Graaf generators that sparked and sputtered and machine banks covered with rows of glowing-hot vacuum tubes. A half dozen worktables were situated around the room, containing rows of chemicals and powders stored in thick glass vials, along with spread out surgical instruments of various kinds, each longer, sharper and nastier-looking than the last. The instruments' stainless steel gleamed in the lab's fluorescent light and I was mildly surprised that the blades weren't coated with dried blood.
Victor Baron's own fleshtech was represented in the room as well. One of the computers had a woman's head attached to it instead of a monitor screen and a number of the cables that connected machines and which lay strewn about the floor resembled extended spinal columns. But most impressive – or perhaps I should say disturbing – of all was the operating table located in the center of the lab. An intertwined column of spines descended from the ceiling above the table, supporting a fleshy mass shot through with pulsating swollen veins. Extended outward from the bottom of the mass were a half dozen arms, a mix of male and female as well as various races, both human and non human. It appeared Baron was an equal opportunity vivisectionist.
"Sorry I didn't come to the door to greet you when you arrived, but I was trying to get caught up on one of my new projects. As you might imagine there's no end of work to be done around here and I feel like I'm eternally behind. Even with all the excellent help I have."
Baron's voice was a mellow tenor and he pronounced each word with the precision and ease of a skilled elocutionist. Listening to him speak was like listening to a master musician playing his instrument. As the story goes Baron hadn't been quite so godlike when he first came to Nekropolis, but he'd had over two centuries to become his own ult
imate creation, the pinnacle of what the reanimatory arts could accomplish. Dr. Frankenstein might have given Victor Baron life, but by this point he was most definitely a self-made man.
Baron had approached us as he talked and he laid a perfectly manicured hand on Henry's shoulders. The assistant grimaced in response. Maybe the man was attempting to smile and didn't have enough control of his facial muscles to pull it off, but somehow I doubted it.
I glanced over at the table where Baron had been working. A large glass tank sat on the table's surface, filled with a thick clear liquid. Suspended in the viscous goo was a coiled mass of what looked like thin red tubing surrounding a trio of hearts that had been fused together. The hearts throbbed in unison and the tubing pulsed in time with each beat.